Green ripples singing down the corn, With blossoms dumb the path I tread, And in the music of the morn One with wild roses on her head.

Now the green ripples turn to gold And all the paths are loud with rain, I with desire am growing old

And full of winter pain.

Every season hath its pleasures: Spring may boast her flowery prime. Yet the vineyard's ruby treasures Brighten Autumn's soberer time.

So Life's year begins and closes: Days the shortening still can shine; What the youth gave love and roses. Age still leaves us friends and wine.

Phillis, when she might have caught me.

All the Spring looked coy and shy. Yet herself in Autumn sought me. When the flowers were all gone by.

Ah, too late:--she found her lover Calm and free beneath his vine. Drinking to the Spring-time over. In his best autumnal wine.

Thus may we, as years are flying.

To their flight our pleasures suit. Nor regret the blossoms dying. While we still may taste the fruit. Oh, while days like this are ours.

Where's the lip that dares repine? Spring may take our loves and flowers.

So Autumn leaves us friends and wine.